Inheritance
by absent writer
Summary: In the moments before his first encounter with the "King of Games", Seto Kaiba takes a moment to plan his first moves. No pairings.


Inheritance

by absent writer

* * *

"Wha-Kaiba?! What did you do with my—". The young teen's voice was cut off as said Kaiba slammed the phone back onto the receiver.

"…"

Admittedly, he had ended their conversation with a bit more…force…than he had intended. But he just couldn't _stand_ it. There was something about that kid's voice that just grated on his nerves. Perhaps it was that slightly high-pitched, pre-pubescent tone to it. Or, maybe it was the lack of any honorific to grace his adopted name, something his bite-sized, simpering, _pathetic_ classmate should have rightly remembered.

Oh, well. The tremendous, sometimes embarrassing, age difference between himself and his associates often created an initial impression of pity or amusement, an expression one might take on upon witnessing a gorilla struggling with sign language. However, he was beginning to think that it was no difference at all that was the worst. After all, it created a bridge of false familiarity between them. Underestimation in business meetings was an advantage: uncomfortable advances of friendship only caught him off-guard. And, somehow, that little boy and his mangy, flea-ridden pack didn't seem to understand why their efforts only served to irritate him.

Drifting out of his thoughts, the brunette reached into one of his coat pockets and pulled out a familiar card.

There was something oddly intriguing about it, really. After all, the image of a silvery, metallic dragon flashing its teeth was identical to the other three, safely contained somewhere in his deck, waiting for his summon. Yet they were not interchangeable. The old man, who currently lay gasping for breath in the front hall, ignored by his staff at his orders, had been blathering on and on about 'the heart of the cards' during their duel, and how failing to understand this would lead to certain defeat.

So much for that. After all, he had every version of this card in _existence_. There was no defeating him now, heart of the cards or not.

Yet…there had to be something to it.

The old man's dragon looked back up at him through its little window, snarling and baring its two-dimensional teeth, practically glowing with printed ferocity.

What could he do with it?

The rules were clear on this: a duelist may only have three of the same card, be it a monster, spell, or trap, in any one deck. And he already had three Blue-Eyes White Dragons. So what to do with the fourth?

Obviously, it couldn't go in his deck, not unless he wanted to replace one of his own hard-acquired dragons, for which he had no reason. And as only four of this card existed in the world, it was practically priceless, despite the slightly worn edges that marked years of play.

For someone so emotionally attached to his cards and a game shop owner, he didn't seem to bother with maintenance much. And without the excuse of ignorance, then it was just plain _sloppy_.

Of course, even in a museum it wouldn't be safe. Suppose someone stole it and used it in a duel against him? What then? Though he didn't like to admit it, under lucky circumstances and timing, such an opponent might win.

The last alternative was to guard it in his home: never to be used, sold, nor even displayed. He had heard of people doing this simply for the sake of 'safekeeping'. In these cases, they had something so precious to them, they couldn't bear to allow themselves to use it or even see it. As if that 'thing', their most treasured possession, might be stained by their very presence.

Worthless.

After all, as much as he loved this particular monster, if it couldn't help him, if it was a liability, then…

There was a much easier solution. And a much more enjoyable one, though he would have to wait just a few more minutes to put it in action.

Running his fingers along the frayed edge of the card, he couldn't help but remember the recent changes in policy for his company. Changes his dear mentor probably wouldn't have appreciated, though it wasn't like he had any say in it. Although…sometimes he was plagued with certain doubts.

Was it worth it? The tremendous investments, the technology, the manpower…once employed in military weaponry and defense, now all projects had been transferred into a newly-born games division. As for whether or not it would be profitable, who knew?

But money couldn't be everything, as contradictory as it would seem for him. This company, still emblazoned with his stepfather's name, his grand inheritance, won after years of planning and intrigue ending with a bloodstained concrete sidewalk just meters from the front door…it would all be passed on one day to his little brother.

All the multi-million dollar holdings…stocks, bonds, loans…and he could only hope that these would increase while he was in control of KaibaCorp. And all for him. An 'heir' of sorts.

Of course, all this could come from military investment, into the improvement of devices designed to kill and to maim, but that was not the legacy he planned to pass on to Mokuba. No…it would have to be the one thing they had in common, a love of games…

And what did it matter what he did to get it, as long as _he_ never knew? Even if he hadn't gone into weapons, he had certainly exercised brutality to get what he wanted. The reputation of his company depended on his own reputation as a gamer, and if he had to threaten, intimidate, and even, in extreme situations, murder to secure an ample and relatively clean inheritance for his brother, a child that would grow up as he hadn't, without the burden of a crushing responsibility, without witnessing betrayal and sabotage, without committing it himself…

If he could take it all away, the birth shrouded by an untimely death, that event surely setting a precedent for an accursed life…no matter what he had to do, how much he had to stain his own hands in the process, casting away all the precious things that could only hurt _him_, if it was all in _his_ name…

And then…when he was gone and left behind the fruit of his efforts…

He could hear footsteps pounding down the sidewalk, then the front door creaking open.

When the last threat to his brother's happiness had been removed…

He stood up, slipping the old man's--his--card into his pocket.

What did it matter?

* * *

A return gift-fic for my sister (an extremely delayed graduation present). As for anyone else who has happened to stumble upon this...well, I guess you can read it too.

Many thanks to Setalina Muro, who was a wonderful help and assurance that I will not be endlessly harangued by said sister for failing to live up to standards. If you agree, go ahead and seek her out (apologies to her in case anyone actually does this).


End file.
